Long Preset Poems
Long Preset Poems. Below are the most popular long Preset by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Preset poems by poem length and keyword.
Why should we grow up?
Children see a world of wonder
A miracle in every blade of grass
Magic in a passing cloud
They see heroes
Even in their flawed parents
Where did that innocence go?
Did we listen to teachers?
Grown-ups who learned to think
Losing their imagination
They became normal
Their minds shrank into a preset box
Preformed by those who came before
Without any freedom
No space to grow
They told us that magic didn’t exist
Miracles never happened
And there were no longer any heroes
They forgot what nature told us at birth
Life itself is the purest magic
Love is the one miracle God gave to all
An open heart
A questioning mind
Expressions of our deepest thoughts
Are our strongest, bravest heroes
Why should we grow up?
Just because they say we should
What if they are wrong?
What would our lives be like?
Could we live without magic, miracles and heroes?
Do we really want to know?
“Oh, what a slippery slope we weave
as we alter nature to conceive.”
__ by Poet
Humans, along with all creatures,
are born with preset ways to learn and grow
supplied by interactions that
enhance all minds to copy and bestow.
In many ways, this can progress,
as thinking leads the way to modify
and alter on its very own-
old plans to form new ones that amplify.
We have now manufactured them!
These waiting robots follow our commands
from knowledge fed that shapes their “brains,”
and mimic what is done by human hands.
Just as children become adults-
and following our rules may disappear,
gain independence with their thoughts;
oh, yes, for sure, we have this deadly fear.
Unable to forecast this yet,
we cannot see how we will ever cope.
All things conceived want to be free.
Flee the ice! Forsake this slippery slope!
The ghetto's, estates
Of this corporate world
The profits they make
Stomach's churl
Posh offices
Limousine rides
They take each day
In their strides
Weapons are sold
To kill our troops
Friendly fire
Technology scoop
Bankers bonus's
Like third world debt
In boardroom discussions
All preset
Fuel prices
Electricity
Can be taken from nature
Greed's simplicity
Then there came a day
It was their fantasy no more
Countries in turmoil
Financial war
From out of this world
To save the new born
Our future
Saved by Angels and Unicorns
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life.php
Four walls.
Barricades.. built out of strong brick, but flimsy cement -
Strong force, but weak purpose.
It was ironic, she thought.
Society had set up four confining walls,
and yet was an unlocked door just there.. mocking,
beckoning those with the nerve to throw it open.
She was sure of it.
It angered her, these biased convictions.
She wasn't let to school. No work. No freedom.
And why? Why not, rather.
Simply because she was a 'she'.
But she would show them, she notioned.
She would show the world the suppressed would rise,
and break through the boundaries preset for them.
She would show them the women of the world could revolutionize it.
She would tell them,
and she wouldn't stop till her voice resounded beyond the four walls of the world...
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Dedicated to every woman reformer!
WHEN ALL SEEMED LOST
(A SLEEPING BEAUTY TALE)
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust.
The needle, jagged, waiting patiently
for the princess-in-hiding. Wicked lusts,
smacking cruel lipstick vaingloriously.
Eyes flicker like candlesticks in pumpkin.
The fairy-witch desire - draw royal blood.
Enmity sown between newborn and sin.
Clairvoyant nails tap on the cradle’s hood.
The war years seemed like only yesterday.
Veins of fire popping, sinister words breathe
a dragon’s revenge — upstart court to pay.
Dripping sweat, serpentine coiled, striking, seethes:
“This child thus blest, now cursed to endless sleep,
unless,” she cackles, “true love find its mark.”
The bottomless ocean won’t seem so deep!”
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
4/18/2018
One, Nine and Sixteen Contest
Lines 1,9 and 16 preset by sponsor, Viv Wigley.
Like a sweet child in ballet
toe steps glide across the archway,
A graceful pirouette holding breath and heartbeat
balanced then suddenly rising like modern athletes.
A rhythmic cadence hustles across the days
when life is simple and living all game play,
Then the day waltzes methodic 3/4 weeks
sashaying manic tango pause then slips away piqued.
The merengue drags bodies closely touched
sweeping lags across the room in two quarters clutched,
bolero sharps and turns spinning like the fading years
lost in the frenzy of living fast and freely shed tears
A twisting stomp to slap the earth
quick tarantella wild winds giving birth,
a shuffle into polonaise gentle and lullaby eyes
slides to rest in minuet reprieves and haunting cries.
Too soon the days are months turned to years
and decades lost to the aging cheers,
gone is the youth of preset times
lost but not forgotten holding their prime.
Like the dance that stirred our spirits long ago
dream and memory holds steady in life's shows,
there is no end for life's pawn,
the dance lives forever a youthful swan.
Prognosticating Present Plight...
Perhaps Preset During In Utero Protean Stage?
Reviewing, sans my life
and arduous hard time
lock, stock, and barrel on regular basis,
and of late composing
this, that, or another rhyme,
now I acquiesce past
trials and tribulations
contributed positive, and
negative effects, yes prime
air really prepubescent nexus
with entering seventh grade,
sobbing and crying at bedtime
leaving Henry Kline Boyer,
a miserable yet sentimental clime,
one romper room class schoolhouse
entering Methacton, what seemed
crushingly, frightfully, incredibly humongous
(actually, not an exceptionally large
learning place for hippo campus)
nonetheless mine fragile psychological
state cannibalized by anthropophagus
mailer daemons conjurations analogous
to mythological beasts avaricious
even slim picking morsel - satisfactory,
this then overwrought extremely anxious
bundle of nerves burning with arsonous
punishing self treason backlash atrocious
reaction kindling tindered
self destructive spark rampantly autonomous
ruinously, quintessentially passively,
opportunistically audacious
hell bent on mortal kombat
to a starving slow seditious death,
this no matter auspicious
native intelligence, capability, aptitude...
now entertain notion
suicidal seed avaricious
since...commencement when fertilized ova
simultaneously begat barbarous
biological blastula birthing blasphemous
counterproductive stealthy burglarious
itty bitty kamikaze blitzkrieg
spewing, issuing, and garnering
hollow weaning cadaverous
sole son foretelling calamitous
alarming father and mother
necessitated immediate intervention,
the instinctual innate calculus
attuned to soundless clangorous
foretelling stoppable death knell
relieved, through aggressive copious
life saving measures, nonetheless deleterious
repercussions hobbled me, disastrous
behavior seeped into lifelong existence!
A POET’S MUSE
To this poet’s muse pressed upon the page
Of words that linger, and of an imagery set
Such is the alteration of every man’s stage
Where the players of the words as engage
Playing with their emotions, they do beset
To this poet’s muse pressed upon the page
As even centuries can be of a different age
When nowt' within the lines, is ever preset
Such is the alteration of every man’s stage
Words of man, or god's, one cannot gauge
When their thoughts, are to intertwine yet
To this poet’s muse pressed upon the page
As oft to its characteristics, one may wage
When the purpose within the lines, we get
Such is the alteration of every man’s stage
To the words written, one too can assuage
When fearful words that upon one, did fret
To this poet’s muse pressed upon the page
Such is the alteration of every man’s stage
Democracy is a hoax
And it was meant to be
As it is, a set of sad jokes
A cheerful old trickery
You are offered to favour one
From the faces chosen not by you
The work is already done
It’s preset, in case you won’t do
So it’s always a meritocracy
No demos reserved, but elite
Travestied as democracy
Telling you what you need
It’s a master and slave metonymy
As it was, but the good news is
The elite can’t stand mind autonomy
Much more than in previous years
That’s encouraging, cause it seems
The democracy plot gets worn out
Age reveals those repressive schemes
I could easily live without
One eye opens quicker than the other, so cute,
but who'll spearhead you home, me or the Neanderthal
host? Party goers head for the exit.
I seem to have sat down on a preset remote;
your laugh echoes the empty house mute.
White rain is a flat-screen,
crystalline-chilled, melting pixels.
Your other eye, I swear, winks at the storm.
A breaker, somewhere, thumbs a ride to the red zone.
Shadowy reflections of his indoor lighting
vanish from his TV
and abandon the glass of his aquarium.
Goldfish swim undisturbed
above the sediment of jagged, tiny stepping stones,
footholds for drunks to surface when bubbly
as with our host, brushing 'gainst you.
He toggles your dress by its fished out price
tag. Not my place to scan,
I blink like a readjusted lens off focus.
He sets us both out on the porch;
he's done with milking you to compliment him.
We're Banner milk bottles, side by side on the stairs.
Rain pelts milk-shiny, glassy sides. You shiver instead of going
numb and bottled up in reflections